"Don Falcone."
I raised a hand to cut her off, then turned to Bianca Falcone.
"He's your father, isn't he?"
She blinked, then lifted her chin, as if the name alone made her something to be honored.
"So the Don of the Marchetti house has heard of my father."
There was no mistaking the confidence in her voice.
"Then since you already know who he is, you must also realize that if I stay, there could well be reason for an alliance between your Syndicate and the Falcone Family somewhere down the line."
She said it with perfect ease, utterly sure of herself.
After all, twenty years on, the Falcone name was still an old, established one. Nowhere near its former glory, perhaps, but standing at a height no ordinary outfit could touch.
"That won't be necessary."
Bianca's expression froze.
"I have no use for an alliance with the Falcones."
I slid the exile papers across the table to her.
"Now, you can go."
She lost her composure completely, her face flushing crimson. Not from shame. From rage.
She had been the golden child her entire life, never once turned away in front of others.
"Fine."
She glared at me with venom and snatched the papers off the desk.
"Don Marchetti, I'll remember today. I hope you won't live to regret it."
After she left, I sent the other four associates out as well.
My consigliere clearly hadn't caught up with what was happening. She was still trying to talk me out of it.
"Don Marchetti, why would you do this? The Falcone Family may not be what it once was, but a starving wolf still has teeth. Casting out the Falcone heiress in front of everyone like that isn't exactly the smart move."
"Are you finished?"
My voice came out cold, and she shut her mouth at once.
"Go and have every operation Bianca touched during her time with us copied out, and bring it to my office."
That afternoon, my consigliere had only just set the books down when the office door was shoved open from the outside.
I looked up to see a remarkably well-preserved woman come stalking in on her heels.
She wore Chanel, an emerald at her wrist so vividly green it was almost garish, her face painted so flawlessly it gave away nothing of her real age.
Camilla Russo.
Twenty years, and she'd clearly been living well off the family's tribute.
"You're the one who runs this Syndicate?"
She walked up and sat down across from me, tossing her Hermès bag onto the desk like it was nothing.
"Who gave you the nerve to cast out my daughter?"
I ignored her, lifting the bottle at my own pace and pouring myself a measure of wine. The glass came to rest against the wood without a sound.
"Signora Falcone. Still as full of fire as ever. The years have clearly been kind to you."
Camilla paused.
She stared at my face for several seconds, never quite placing where she'd seen me before.
She had long since forgotten me, that much was obvious.
Twenty years ago, I'd been nothing but a scrawny six-year-old, thrown out of the house on a single word from her.
Now I sat at the head of an empire worth more than the whole Falcone bloodline could count. How could she possibly recognize me?
She assumed instead that I knew her for what she was, the lady of the Falcone house.
"Since you know who I am, let's skip the nonsense."
Camilla's voice was elegant and unhurried, edged with the imperious air of a woman pampered for decades. Her fingers drifted to the pearls at her throat, adjusting them by a fraction.
"Bianca is my daughter. Her coming to work inside your operation is an honor for you. But someone of her blood is wasted carrying messages with the rank and file. Just put her in a capo's seat."
I gave a faint smile.
"Is she qualified?"
Camilla's face changed.
"What did you say?!"
I set down my glass and looked at her, spacing out each word.
"I said, she's not qualified."
Camilla shot to her feet, her face white with fury.
"Listen here, Marchetti, don't throw away a courtesy when it's handed to you! My daughter standing with your people is doing you a favor. Do you have any idea how many alliances the Falcone Family seals in a single year?"
